The Port Chronicles
by Vronsurd
Summary: Professor Port teaches the boys at Beacon how to be men, enrages Glynda (but its probably just cause she's in the closet), fights a secret war with Salem (total babe), Deals with a jealous Ozpin, and considers settling down-with a real queen. All in a day for the greatest huntsman to have ever lived. Player. Professor. Protector. Penetrator. Peter Port.
1. The Blue Haired Devil

**So…to the people who IM'd me asking when this fic would come out because it was on my profile and I said, oh, in a day or so…**

 **Whoops.**

 **In my defense. I did not realize how long it would take me to flesh out an outline for this story and figure out the first chapter. I usually have a pretty good idea what the first few chapters of a story will look like and a general outline for the entire thing.**

 **With this one, all I had was the idea for the story. None for the first chapter. Which is why it took me forever to write this. It didn't flow out of me at all. By the time I finished this chapter it was 11k words long. I cut nearly half of it. And then rewrote the remaining half.**

 **That won't be necessary in the future.**

 **I hope.**

 **As I explain on my profile I am writing a couple of different stories. Once I've got a first chapter out for all of them I will create an update schedule for each. So you guys know exactly when a new chapter comes out. Right now, that's looking like a grand total of three stories. But I may add a fourth we'll see. I've been nursing a super iffy idea I might try. Kind of like how this one started. Before I realized how awesome Port was.**

 **Unlike The Shield of Vale this is not an overly serious fic. As you'll soon see. If you are into more serious fantasy stuff you should check that out.**

 **Again, I don't have a beta and didn't have a lot of time to edit. So please forgive small errors. Like overuse of a word in a paragraph. I just wanted to get this out. I'll do better I promise.**

 **And to those who sent me IMs about a Yandere's Worst Nightmare. BAHHHHHHHHH... I'll consider it. Meh.**

 **Without Further Ado…**

 **The Port Chronicles**

 **The Blue Haired Devil**

 _A Few Days Before Beacon Initiation_

 _In the Uninhabitable Lands to the Far South_

"…and after Cinder acquires the _full_ maiden powers…" Watts clicked a button on his small remote. His next slide was a rendering of a larger-than-life Cinder, drawn with razor sharp teeth, breathing fire at an Atlesian air-ship—a wide eyed Dragon sat in the background, seemingly afraid of its savage master.

Tyrian found the slide hilarious. Not that that said much. The scorpion faunus had laughed just as hard at the graphs and charts Watts had used earlier. Watts glanced at Cinder from the corner of his eye. She was gnashing her teeth, eyes alight in fury.

Good.

After all, how else would she fit into that skimpy red dress if he didn't break that giant ego of hers? Watts hated little girls pretending to be women.

Hazel looked vaguely amused.

Salem watched him like a hawk, no hint of an appreciation for humor in her features. There was no sign that she was paying attention to his presentation either.

Watts forged ahead regardless. "We will proceed to methodically dissect humanity." The slide changed again. This time it was a bloody man, pinned to a dissection table. The funniest part of the gruesome image was the setting. It was a highschool, but all the students had been replaced with Grimm. Watts had trouble resisting the urge to grin as he continued.

Tyrian laughed hard, just as he had at every other slide.

"Vale will be our first target because the fallout from the worst Grimm incursion and largest terrorist attack in the last century will leave them particularly vulnerable. In terms of both their martial defenses and the negativity of the populace."

His next slide was a timeline. "I predict we will ravage Vale within four years. And once we expand the Grimm breeding grounds… our access to the rest of Remnant will increase drastically. We'll lay waste to all four kingdoms within twelve to sixteen years."

The next slide was a collage of four separate images, each of the kingdoms of Remnant, each of them burning.

"This, my lady, is what we have been working towards for the last seven years. The plan has, admittedly, been in flux. Especially since Cinder's spectacular failure regarding the Maiden powers. I've had to make some _huge_ adjustments since then." He looked at the girl in question. "Really dear, bravo."

If the looks of a child could kill...

"This, is the first step in the fulfillment of seven years of careful planning, building, and preparing. I call this first step, this first plan, H.U.M.A.N.B.E.N.D."

His final slide displayed his acronym vertically. Next to each letter was a word. "Human," "Uprisings," "Maiden," "Abilities," "Neutralization," "of Beacon," "Enlargement," "of Non-inhabitable," "Domains"

"H.U.M.A.N.B.E.N.D. is part of the larger plan, V.A.L.E.S.T.O.R.M., which in turn is first of four parts in D.E.A.T.H.T.O.A.L.L.M.A.N. After the completion of D.E.A.T.H.T.O.A.L.L.M.A.N., my queen, you will rule all Remnant, undisputed, humanity reduced to a crumb of its former self."

Watts ended his presentation with a flourish and a "thank you."

Tyrian clapped and cheered, screaming, "encore! Encore!"

Hazel nodded approvingly.

Cinder rolled her eyes and muttered something about "overcomplication" and "stupid people using stupid acronyms for everything."

Watts clicked his remote one last time, revealing his true final slide. It was another rendered image of Cinder. Said girl was reaching for a shiny object labeled "Fall Maiden Powers", only to get slapped in the face by an anthropomorphized, covered in feathers, rippling with muscle, six-foot-tall, crow.

He planned to leave that treat onscreen for the duration of the upcoming discussion.

Watts noted, with ample satisfaction, that Cinder's fingers left scorch marks on the table as she tried to pretend that his taunt was ineffective.

He looked to Salem, the only person at this table whose opinion mattered. Her chin rested on interlaced fingers. Her red and black eyes were expressive.

But Watts had no idea what they were expressing.

He could tell, however, that she was studying him, considering him and his plan.

Watts straightened his back a bit more.

###

Cinder watched Salem deliberate, fuming in silence. She hated him. She hated his obnoxious mustache. She hated his voice, his eyes, his words.

She hated everything about the man.

There was something distinctly irritating about having allies that weren't controlled with fear and intimidation. Cinder wanted to hear him scream as she burned the flesh from his bones. She wanted to watch him beg as she melted his body into unrecognizable soup.

As it was, for now, until Salem no longer deemed the man an asset, she could only meet his disrespect with mutual disdain.

She glanced at the illustration of her projected onto the far wall. The maiden powers were within her grasp, only to be smacked down by a six-foot tall crow.

Damn it.

It stung. It stung because that was basically what happened. Minus that horrid crow creature. Maybe Watts had been practicing his self-portrait skills there.

The man who had foiled her attempt at ultimate power had been a little…easier on the eyes. Certainly not a grotesque bird monster.

After a few seconds of silence Salem spoke. "You are unwaveringly thorough Watts, as per usual."

"You are too kind my queen. Are there any...modifications you wish to make?"

Cinder could see Watts' smugness. It was dripping off him. He was sweating it.

If only it was flammable.

"Only one," replied Salem, bone-white finger idly tracing the rim of her empty cup. "D.E.A.T.H.T.O.A.L.L.M.A.N. is the big scheme you have concocted to bring humanity to their knees. Correct?"

"Of course, my queen. I strive to stay on mission, always."

Cinder scoffed and rolled her eyes. Leave it to Watts to pat himself on the back at every possible opportunity.

There was nothing wrong with pride.

Unless you were a useless tool.

Now Watts wasn't useless—after all—Salem had kept him around for years. There had to be a reason.

Cinder assumed it was amusement.

So, Watts wasn't _useless_. Not in the true sense of the word. But, dear god, was he a tool. Such a tool.

"And I have always appreciated that about you Watts," said Salem magnanimously. "You've spent the last seven years crafting one of the most thorough and detailed plans I've ever seen—and I've lived for millennia."

"You are too kind," said Watts, smiling, clearly pleased by the recognition. "So is it D.E.A.T.H.T.O..A.L.L.M.A.N you wish to modify?"

"Not modify," corrected Salem, "scratch altogether."

"Ah," replied Watts.

The man froze, clearly attempting to process what the powerful woman before him had just said.

Cinder required far less time. All that smugness…all those jabs…all those condescending glances.

Cinder's hand flew to her mouth as she laughed.

She laughed silently.

But visibly.

Very visibly.

Watts glared at her. "If I may ask, my queen, why this…sudden change of heart?"

"Oh, it's not a _sudden_ change of heart Watts," answered Salem quickly, "I have been on the verge of dumping your plan for seven years."

Watts cleared his throat.

Cinder, under the impression that she had composed herself, nearly choked when she heard Salem's response.

Hadn't Watts only been working with Salem for _seven_ years?

"You always seemed so happy working on your plans," said Salem, in a voice not unlike a mother. Well…a mother who lacked human empathy and had no issue killing her children. "Especially coming up with those ridiculous names. I _certainly_ didn't want to take that away from you."

Cinder could hardly breathe.

"Thank you ma'am," Watts squeezed out.

"You are welcome Watts," the Queen of Grimm demurred.

Watts sat down stiffly, clearly content to take the rest of his humiliation in silence.

Cinder sighed at that. She wished he had talked back to Salem. She would have loved to see him struck down, or at least maimed a bit.

But he wasn't stupid enough to challenge the Queen of Grimm. And he probably recognized that respectfully asking for more explanation on her refusal would only result in further embarrassment.

Cinder wasn't as keen to save Watts the agony. "My lady," she began with a bowed head, "I understand your reason, for…humoring Watts. What better way to make sure one day he actually grows up to become a passable tactician?"

Watts' facial shade was beginning to resemble Cinder's dress.

Cinder continued with glee. "But I think we're all wondering…" She motioned vaguely to the other two seated at the table, "what makes his plans so…utterly useless?"

"You…!" Watts turned on Cinder, beginning to roar.

He went silent immediately when Salem spoke in her calm, almost bored voice.

"The reason I am dismissing Watts' interlocking schemes is because they are naïve and will not work."

"Naïve, my queen?", Watts hissed from between clenched teeth.

Watching him stuff his anger down his throat as he addressed their master was, perhaps, the most beautiful sight Cinder had ever beheld.

"Perhaps 'naïve' is the wrong word," said Salem, "Flawed…? Weak…? Impotent…? The fact of the matter remains, while some small pieces of your plan show promise, the larger stages will never succeed. Not in a hundred years."

Cinder waited to hear Watts' response. When none was forthcoming she looked a little closer. He wasn't moving. He wasn't even blinking. It was as if he had been frozen from the inside out.

Oh, Salem broke him.

Cinder had never admired her mistress more.

It was Hazel who broke the silence. His voice reverberated around the room like an Ursa growl. "As you all know, I'm no strategist. Although I suppose I'm not the least strategic at this table." He looked pointedly at Tyrian.

Tyrian pretended to blush, covering his face with open hands and his stinger, before breaking out into a cackle.

Hazel continued after shaking his head at his insane frie—acquaintance. "Since tactics aren't my specialty I will not waste time pondering whether Watts' plans are trash. I will simply accept your word on the matter."

Watts' face twitched.

"Of course." Tyrian giggled. "Trash is trash. Especially when the Goddess says so."

Watts' twitching intensified.

"I am curious though," Hazel continued, unperturbed, "what does this mean for us?"

"Things will proceed as scheduled for the immediate future," answered Salem. "The fatal flaw in Watts' plans is his gross underestimation of our enemies. Cinder you'll need to be careful. But you should be fine."

"You're too kind," said Cinder, smiling.

"It was not a compliment Cinder," chided Salem, "you simply have an advantage over the rest of us."

"I do?", asked Cinder, surprised. As far as she was aware, until she managed to get the other half of her powers, she was the weakest individual at this table. Aside from when Mercury and Emerald occasionally stood by her.

"You're young. _He_ won't move against you. Not if you keep a low profile. _He_ believes in leaving the problems of the next generation up to the next generation. Watts though…", she glanced at the near cationic man, " _he_ 'd kill this one in a heartbeat."

"Ozpin my lady?", asked Hazel.

"Ozpin? No. Not Ozpin. Ozpin used to be a concern. He hasn't been for decades."

"Qrow?", ventured Cinder.

"Crow? Oh. The one who foiled your attempt on the maiden." She motioned to the obscene projection behind her. "No."

Cinder exchanged a confused look with Hazel. Tyrian did not have answers either. He was preoccupied with…

Was that a dead animal?

Watts was beginning to recover, but he had clocked out of the conversation far too long to know what they were discussing.

"Who?", Cinder finally asked.

Salem closed her eyes and exhaled. "The Blue Haired Devil."

The Blue Haired Devil? Who the hell was that?

"Anyway, Watts," continued Salem, eyes snapping open, "I imagine you will be happy to hear that I have adopted your system for naming plans. The operation that will be replacing yours is called S.E.I.Z.I.N.G.T.H.E.P.O.R.T."

"What does that stand for?", asked Watts.

"What it stands for is of no concern to you Watts. Or the rest of you. All you need to know is what it entails…"

"Cutting down the Blue Haired Devil?", suggested Hazel.

"Roasting him," supplied Cinder.

"Stabbing him and stabbing him and stabbing him and stabbing him," said Tyrian happily.

"A subtler death, you fools," said Watts. "Poison," he crowed.

Great, Cinder rolled her eyes. The prick was participating again.

She studied her master's expression. It seemed none of them were right. What horrifying death did the Queen of Grimm have in store for the Blue Haired Devil?

Salem's eyes were suddenly alight with more energy than she had displayed during the entire conversation. The black in her eye dilated and there was a bit of a smile building at the corner of her mouth.

It was not an expression Cinder was familiar with seeing on her queen's face.

"I _will_ bring him to my side. I _will_ dominate him. He _will_ submit. The Blue Haired Devil _will_ become my...pawn."

There was a manic passion in the Grimm Lord's voice, an uncomfortable departure from the cool, collected reason the woman usually displayed.

It disappeared so quickly Cinder thought she might have imagined it.

But there was no room for that thought when Salem detached Watts scroll from the projector and plugged in her own.

After a moment of swiping she pulled up the image of a young man with blue hair and a small moustache. He was shirtless. He was short. Probably shorter than Cinder. He was muscular, had the build of a huntsman and had a large axe in his left hand and a _colossal_ axe strapped across his back. He was smiling at the camera, so much so that his eyes were squeezed shut.

He was a handsome looking man. Probably popular with the ladies. He'd have been near perfect if he was taller.

Not quite the devil Cinder had been expecting.

"This is Peter Port," said Salem, meeting each of their eyes, she began swiping through, what turned out to be, a rather extension collection of photos, "and I want him."

###

 _30 Years Before the Formation of teams RWBY & JNPR._

 _In the Southern Wilds, 221 miles south of Vale_

"So there I was, staring down the biggest Nevermore I'd ever seen. All I had on me was a toothbrush and a pair of briefs," explained Peter Port, booming. The man had opted to shed his shirt, his toned upper body covered only by the strap across his chest that fixed his massive axe to his back. "A pair of briefs!", he repeated for emphasis.

"What interesting flora," said Bartholomew Oobleck as he inspected a large flower on the side of the road. A foot taller but twenty pounds lighter than his well-built friend, and wearing his full explorer's ensemble Oobleck was…an altogether different man than Port.

On the explorer's back, hidden beneath his much larger bag of equipment, was his special bag—filled to the brim with pure espresso. He clamped his mouth around the clear plastic tube dangling before his lips and sucked in a long draft. He moaned as the bitter fluid hit his palette. His body began to vibrate a bit, as if he was fading in and out of their dimension. When he spoke, his pacing had nearly tripled. "It appears to be a kind of orchid but…its petal shape is vaguely reminiscent of a lily," Bartholomew's attention remained on the flower when he addressed Peter. "Were the briefs in hand or on you?"

The two men were journeying through a particularly rough section of underbrush, making their way deeper into the forests of the southern wilds. Well, Peter Port was walking. Bartholomew Oobleck was disappearing and reappearing all over the place within a thirty-foot radius of his friend, observing everything he could take in.

Their mission was…

Well their mission was unclear, to say the least.

Port had claimed he needed to take a journey—to reassert his dominance over Grimm and nature.

What did that even mean?

Ozpin had told the eclectic warrior that he'd find interesting happenings to the south, while smirking deviously from behind a cup of coffee.

Who would ever fall for that?

And Bart was always willing to explore new parts of the world.

Although, perhaps, in the future, he should not be so eager?

So here he was. Bartholomew Oobleck—a scientist, archeologist, historian, and caffeine aficionado—two-hundred or so miles from the nearest lab, library, or brewery.

"Good question," roared Port, stopping next to his friend. "The briefs were on me. But they'd be off by the end of the fight!"

"It's probably unnecessary for a dabbler in botany such as myself to take thorough documentation of a species I will, no doubt, be able to find record of when I return home, so I will keep my notes…" Oobleck paused, glancing at Port, "…brief."

Peter laughed for fifteen seconds at his friend's pun, which, coincidentally, was about how long Bart required to take six pages of notes, including a sketch of the flower, a detailed explanation of its scent and feel, and several theories concerning its genus.

"So there we were. I and a giant Nevermore. I had no weapon and no time to waste. See, I had a lady waiting for me back in bed—"

"Wait, where does this tale take place?", interrupted Bart. He shut his notebook and stashed his pencil. "Were you not in the wilds?"

"Ah! I thought you might have missed some of the _saucier_ details when you chased after that hummingbird! This adventure began at the finest hotel in Vacuo. See, I was enjoying a rather pleasurable night and before I knew it…the sun was rising! My companion complained that she couldn't take any more and needed a break before she 'broke.' So I decided to brush my teeth, and retreated to the balcony."

"It was at this point the giant Nevermore showed up?", asked Bartholomew.

"Correct!"

"At a five-star hotel, in Vacuo?"

"Yes!"

"Would that hotel happen to be _The Pillar of Autumn_?"

"The one and the same!"

"What an odd occurrence," began Oobleck, displaying a more scientific interest now. "You don't often hear of lone Grimm—even of the flying variant—wandering into the center of a densely populated and heavily protected area—and alone at that."

"Oh! Well, it wasn't 'alone.' It was the first to arrive. There were still several hundreds more coming."

"Wait." Oobleck inhaled more straight caffeine. "Did this story take place during the great migration of sixty-five?"

"Why…" Port faded off as he did some quick math, "I believe so! Anyway, the Nevermore was glaring at me something fierce—"

"Peter. We were still attending Beacon in sixty-five."

"I didn't say we weren't—"

"And our team was in Vacuo during the migration. _Together_."

"What!?", exclaimed Port. "That's absurd…" He trailed off as he sorted through the smaller, less important memories surrounding his epic story. "Ah. Actually, that sounds familiar."

"It should. If I remember correctly, you said you were going to get some training done the night before the attack."

"And I did! But you know how _they_ are Bart."

"Who?"

"Women."

"Ah. Yes. I forgot about the universal struggle you and I share. The relentless pursuit of the fairer sex, incessant, insatiable, unfathomable desire."

"So you do know!"

"Only because I was your teammate Peter," said Oobleck, "you know _my_ passions have always leant themselves to more… scientific pursuits."

"I am the same my friend! My passions trend towards a certain type of science as well. The science known as…"

"Don't say it," muttered Oobleck quietly, drinking a bit more of his caffeinated ambrosia.

"Anatomy!"

"Damn it Peter."

Port laughed far longer and louder than he should have been allowed too.

Bartholomew spoke once his teammates raucous laughter had settled. "I must say, I am surprised that this is the first I've heard of this escapade. For someone who likes to boast as boldly as you and _claims_ to have no fear of man or monster…Why didn't I hear of all this the morning after it happened?"

Port froze at that question.

Oobleck knew why.

"I must have forgotten in the ensuing excitement. It was a big incursion. Lots of civilians to protect," explained Peter, looking off to his left.

"A reasonable hypothesis, forgetfulness brought on by the thrill of prolonged combat."

"Precisely!", agreed Peter, "It could happen to anyone, even a huntsman of my caliber!"

"True, true, it _could_ happen.", Oobleck made a show of slurping his coffee this time. "but, if I may counter-hypothesize, you did not forget. You were afraid."

"Me? Afraid? Afraid of what? Perhaps you've mistaken me for another—"

"Glynda."

"Ah. Glynda. She. Well. Yes. I had not considered how she would react to the matter. I suppose she might have responded…adversely. Now that I give it some thought."

Bartholomew thought back to the time Glynda had caught Peter having… "relations" in their dorm. With his lover's terrified screams setting half the backdrop and his laughing and jesting setting the other, Glynda had gently levitated her naked teammate out of their window and then proceeded to launch him into orbit.

"If by 'she might have responded adversely' you mean she may have wielded your body as a blunt instrument against the Grimm hordes then I must agree, her response would have been…" Oobleck chuckled, "adverse."

"Fair enough!", said Port as he laughed. "You found me out. Only a fool would make light of Glynda's wrath. Can you believe she plans to become a teacher? Of children no less!? I cannot imagine it! Think of the horrors the children will face!"

"Hmm," Oobleck hummed as he inspected some purple moss growing on the side of a tree. "A most peculiar color," he muttered. Louder he said, "I do not believe Glynda will make a particularly bad educator. In fact, I think her intelligence and discipline will lead her to great success. I am, however, surprised by her decision. I did not realize she had any desire to teach."

"It's Ozpin," said Port, "His hooks are in her deep. And Glynda has always...well you know."

Bart knew indeed. The relationship between Ozpin and Glynda had always been…complicated. To say the least. Ozpin was their senior, a teacher while they were still students—albeit the youngest teacher on staff in Beacon history—but still a few years older than them. The man was at first glance lazy, disinterested, self-indulgent, and arrogant.

The second glance, and every glance following thereafter, looked much the same.

Yet, for some reason, the man had Glynda Goodwitch's unwavering support and loyalty, both during her tenure as a student, and after, as a full-fledged huntress. Was it love? If it was any other woman Bartholomew might have presumed so.

But one did not presume with Glynda.

"It's sad really," continued Peter, "she did not have the fortitude to avoid getting wrapped up in Ozpin's pace. Unlike you and I. He suggested she teach, so now she teaches. He will not be able to pull the same on us. Yes. You and I…we belong out here." He inhaled deeply, "Under the open sky, not in a stuffy classroom. Ozpin has no strings on us."

Bart wondered if now would be a good time to reveal that Ozpin had been talking to him about becoming a teacher. And to mention that he didn't quite dislike the idea.

And should he also mention that they were only heading south because Ozpin had told them too?

He opened his mouth to speak.

But he did not. He bit back his words.

Instead, he strained to listen.

Quiet, but steadily growing louder, he heard the steady thump of wingbeats. Those were not the wings of an average creature.

"Do you hear that?"

"I do indeed," said Port, eyes glinting.

"Three clicks to our west is the beginning of the Southern mountain range. I recommend we adjust our heading and find higher ground. To best see what we're dealing with."

"It sounded big, didn't it?", asked Peter, with barely constrained excitement.

"Hard to tell without a visual indicator to its distance. However, if it was adequately far away…It could be as big as a Dragon."

Port was sold. "Lead the way!"

###

 _29 Years 364 days and 21 hours Before the Formation of teams RWBY & JNPR._

 _In the Southern Wilds, 224 miles south of Vale_

She clasped her hands together, willing her unresponsive digits to stop trembling. It was to little success. Instead of her fingers, both her arms began to shake.

It was impossible.

Unthinkable.

Goddamn inconceivable.

She did not want to take her eyes off the ledge before her. But she could not stop herself from watching Leonardo, her favorite Dragon, fall from the sky, a single wing missing from his massive body.

When Leo hit the ground his body began to fade, disappearing into the darkness from whence he was born.

That was two dragons now.

The huntsman—if the devil could truly be called such—had maimed her eldest Dragon and, wrapping a rope around the tip of his injured wing, piloted Raphael on a one-way collision course with her Goliaths. That had resulted in three overturned Goliath's, and several hundred crushed smaller Grimm.

She'd never seen an army of Grimm eviscerated so quickly by one warrior before. Well, a warrior without eye powers. But the silver-eyed were an exception to most rules.

Still, to wreak this much havoc with nothing but his hands and an axe?

He was a monster.

Was he still alive?

He must be.

Her twin Dragons had coated him with fire. He killed one before he bothered to pat out the flames.

The efforts of her second Dragon, had vaporized the blue haired devil, along with the mountain top on which they stood, revealing the volcano below. If the full body dive hadn't left him a smear than, surely, the plummet into the angry lava of the active volcano would have finished him.

Or so Salem thought.

But, a moment later, the demons weapon, glowing a blistering shade of orange, flew from the fiery depths of the mountain, hewing Leo's wing off easily, leaving him to follow his brother to hell.

He was alive.

He was alive.

Damn it all he was alive!

Should she flee or should she fight? Her mind cartwheeled back and forth in uncertainty.

Surely, she was stronger than him?

Surely, there was no **one** man that could defeat her?

Surely.

Still, despite her certainty, she stepped back when she heard his voice. He was still below her. But he was getting closer.

"Hup!"

He was coming.

"Hup!"

Probably hopping up the goddamn rock face like some kind of goddamn monster.

"Hup!"

Her heart went from a race to a stampede. His voice was getting closer. He was almost here.

"Hup!"

He landed before her, his blue hair tussled by the roasting updrafts rising from the magma below. His body was...

Well...

It was unreal.

He looked as if he was sculpted from marble. His pecs glistened under a sweaty sheen, hung beneath the broadest of shoulders. His chest tapered from there, abs like individually wrapped chocolates-of the vanilla variety.

He was short. Salem was taller. But his presence, his look, it made him a giant.

She bit her lip and allowed her eyes to drift lower.

Holy…

There was nothing short about that.

He had shed his shirt before his trip into the volcano. And since then he had lost his pants too, letting loose his...generous member.

She forced her eyes up. Only danger lay below.

The man was smiling. Smiling. He had such a friendly smile too. She wondered how many had fallen for that boyish grin only to fall later by his hand. Atop his lips sat a small tuft of blue hair.

A much larger tuft of blue hair sat atop his...

No! Eyes up!

"How!?", she shrieked. "How are you still alive?"

"Come now! What hunter would fall to a bit of fire?", the man chuckled, as if her question was nothing more than a joke.

"Dragon fire," she hissed. "That wasn't just fire, it was Dragon fire!"

"Ah," said the man, as if he had just solved a riddle. "It did feel a little on the hotter side! Although, to be honest I wasn't sure. At first, I just thought the extra heat was from the flames of youth burning in my belly."

"The volcano," the woman sputtered, "the lava should have been even hotter!"

"You're acting like I took a soak in it. It was boiling down there. So I got out as quick as I could." The man began inspecting himself, probably searching for burns. He started with his limbs and then his chest and then his...his...

The woman studied her own pale hands. She wasn't a stickler for modesty. Hell, she didn't care if every single one of these overly intelligent apes went around buck-naked for the rest of their pathetic lives.

But...

But...

She really wanted this primitive being to cover up. At least a bit. God. Please.

"Well, I seem to be relatively unharmed," said the man. "Good for you. If I'd been injured well..." He laughed. It wasn't a light sort of laugh. When he stopped laughing he was still smiling, but there was a definitive hint of malevolence. "I'd have to punish you."

A frigid jolt of electricity ran down the woman's spine. Her knees weakened. The trembling returned. Her mouth was dry,

Was it fear or arousal?

Which did she want it to be?

"Ah. My bad. I didn't mean to scare you fair beauty. You have such a powerful semblance-controlling the Grimm as you do-I forgot I was talking to a young woman."

The woman finally found her voice. "I-I am ancient!"

The man did not acknowledge that she had spoken. "I'm still feeling a bit peckish. Can you summon some more Grimm? Maybe a big one?" He placed his hands on his hip, highlighting the dragon _he_ could summon, a few inches further down."

The woman tried and failed to keep her gaze from swerving. "A big one?"

"Yeah. A big one. Not like those appetizers you had up in the sky."

She retrained her attention on the man's perpetually smiling face. "Those were elder Dragons!"

"The older, the bigger, right?", said the man.

Her gaze drifted downwards again. "Right, bigger."

"Then do your elder Dragons have any elders?"

She shook her head slowly, eyes tracing the chiseled outline of the Adonis before her. "Who **are** you?"

The man guffawed as if her question was the most absurd in the world. "Me? Why my name is—"

###

 _4 Hours Before the Dismissal of D.E.A.T.H.T.O.A.L.L.M.A.N_

 _In the Uninhabitable Lands to the Far South_

"Port!", Salem screamed as she awoke. Her heart thudded and her lungs heaved. She grabbed two handfuls of her soaking wet sheets.

Again.

It had happened again.

Too terrifying to be a dream and too sweet to be a nightmare. Peter Port.

Why?

Why did she dream of him near every night? Why did she awake to sheets soaked with sweat and...well...

Damn it all.

She stalked out of bed, peeling off her sticky nightgown. She hated it. She hated him. She hated humanity.

God, she hated humanity.

The queen of Grimm ran herself a bath, washing away the evidence from last night's sordid memory. She was tempted to finish what last night's dream had started but she refused.

She wouldn't give that man the satisfaction.

She finished her bath, returning to her bedroom. She took a moment to glare at her full-length mirror.

Was there any sign of last night's adventure? No?

Good. Her red and black eyes, weren't glazed and hazy, that was good. Her hair fell neatly enough after wetting it. That was fine. She sniffed her arm. Her scent was lemony, that would do.

She looked a little lower down the mirror. She'd never paid much attention to her body. Why would she? She was the embodiment of pain, suffering, and wrath.

But ever since meeting that man, nearly three decades ago...

She wondered.

She wondered what he saw when he looked at her. He had called her a fair beauty, was there a chance he had meant it? Sure, she was shaped...curvaceous, always had been. But her ashen skin, gently leaking a dark miasma, and the red markings that covered so much of her body...

Well, Port hadn't seen all of her, no matter how naked he had made her feel. He'd probably change his mind if he saw her fully. Although...who knew?

After drying Salem slipped into a casual dress, hanging by her door. The dress was dark and glossy; it suited her well. It was also informal enough wear to meet with the help, which she would be doing soon enough.

She exited her bedroom, heading for her closet.

This was getting ridiculous. Port haunted her dreams, distracted her from a vengeance she had been plotting for more than a thousand years, and threatened the chances of success of those plans altogether.

He was a colossal threat to her interests. And she _hated_ threats to her interest.

And there was only one way to deal with that which she hated.

Not poison. Too impersonal.

Not a blade between the ribs while asleep. Too fast.

Not a trap. Too cowardly.

She opened the door to her dark closet, feeling for the light switch.

Yes, there was only one way to deal with Peter Port.

Her fumbling fingers found the light, illuminating a small room drenched in Peter Port paraphernalia. Dolls, pictures, newspaper clippings, and replicas of the Hunter filled the room in a display of organized obsession.

She was going to make him hers. She was going to take his body and his mind, leaving nothing behind. She would make him scream her name in need, want, and lust.

At the back of the closet was a makeshift shrine, candles and all. At the center was a full-length pillow with Port's image printed across it.

She'd slept with it the first few nights she had it. But soon realized she would dirty the majestic cushion. And there were only so many times you could clean the pillow before you ruined the graphic.

So, she had learned to restrain herself.

She stared at the man on the pillow. He was stubbier and rounder than he had been in his youth. And his moustache was thicker…

Salem's restraint snapped.

She grabbed the pillow, crushing it to her ample chest. It would be fine. Her body was clean right now.

"Besides," she spoke aloud, a giggle lodged in her throat, "I'll have the real thing soon enough…right sweet?"

###

 _Present Day_

 _At Beacon Academy_

"...and that's how I foiled the queen of Grimm's first attempt to invade Vale, by accident, when I was but a young man, on a journey to reaffirm my manhood, in a beautiful expanse, recommended to me by none other than your headmaster. Now I must say, it is still to my undying shame that I did not kill the Queen of Grimm that day." Port laughed.

"To be honest I did not know that she was the mother of all that is evil in this world. I assumed that she, like myself, had been born into this world with the sort of power and good looks that render the wielder an outcast—an unfortunate side effect to society being incapable of understanding and accepting their good looks and power. So, I let her go."

"I have since run into her on several occasions throughout my career. In all that time, more than thirty years, she has not made another strong move against Vale. Some think she has not made a second attempt on Vale out of fear. Fear that I, Peter Port, will render her best efforts into dust. Some think she is no longer interested in Vale but, rather—like many a man and woman over the years—has become obsessed with me. Lost in plotting some way to make my stalwart heart and granite body her own. Still others believe I taught her a valuable lesson in blood and tears. They believe that she will return to Vale-but not leading an army of elder Grimm like before. She will return with a plot so complex and so vast that few will even understand it!"

Peter Port surveyed his dead classroom with critical eyes. So many promising young Hunters! So many of them asleep!

He sighed.

It didn't mean they wouldn't grow up to be great warriors and fine protectors of humanity.

But every moment these future huntresses and huntsman wasted asleep in his class was another mile between them becoming a great hunter and becoming a huntsman extraordinaire, like himself. He'd even gone out of his way to ignore Ozpin's constant screeching about not revealing Salem's existence.

Still they snored.

Fortunately, this class was not entirely without prospect.

He pointed to one raised hand.

"Yes Ms. Valkyrie?"

Despite the dozens of sleeping students, which included Nora's childhood friend and unwilling partner in crime, Nora was just as energetic and invested in Port's lecture as he was himself.

What an impressive young woman.

The girl spoke in a strange caricature of a royal accent. "Well, Peter, I must say I enjoyed today's lecture _immensely_!" Whatever the accent was supposed to be, she pronounced Peter, pet-her.

"Capital!", cheered Port. He surveyed the room once again. "It appears most of your classmates could not handle it all."

"That's because they aren't academics Peter. Not like you and _m-wa_."

"True, true," agreed Peter. What an insightful young lady.

"I do have a question though prof." The studious young lady's accent vanished.

She was even working on mastering different dialects for infiltration tasks and the like! What aplomb!

"Where else have you ran into the Queen of Grimm!?", roared Nora.

"Good question lass!", exclaimed Port "Seven times in the woods just outside of my house, she said she was on her way to her supplier of a 'critical merchandise', and once at the electronics store in my home town. She was buying expensive camera lenses."

"Did you fight her!?", asked Nora, bouncing up and down excitedly.

"Interrupt a woman while she's shopping? What kind of a man do you think I am?"

Nora's face went serious. "Sorry. I didn't even realize."

"Quite alright my dear. It happens to the best of us."

Nora, ever unflappable, did not take her mistake to heart. "You should bring her here," she chirped.

"Salem?", asked the professor.

"She could summon Grimm for us to fight! Like the Dragon!"

Port chuckled at his prize student's enthusiasm. "While I agree, it would be good for you students to have some experience fighting legendary Grimm that can single-handedly wipe out entire civilizations, I can't bring Salem here."

"What!?", cried Nora, "there's something you can't do!?"

"Don't misunderstand lass!" Peter was quick to correct. "It's not that I _can't_ it's because Salem is the embodiment of evil. I could never introduce a being like that to my students."

"Are you sure she's really that bad?", asked Nora. "Are you sure she doesn't just need to be," she laughed and snorted, "ported?"

Salem.

Ported.

Peter broke into a grin.

This Nora Valkyrie…

An insightful young lady indeed.

 **On The Shield of Vale I got a couple complaints about the non-linear nature of the chapter. So of course…**

 **I wrote another non-linear first chapter.**

 **Woot.**

 **Hopefully this one isn't as confusing.**

 **Anyone notice for the characters I put Team RWBY and Team JNPR and then I made them a character pairing?**

 **What's that all about? I wonder...**

 **Forgive me for typos kay? Thanks. I'm working on getting second sets of eyes on my fics for this fandom.**

 **-Vronsurd**


	2. Port's Potency

**Yo, I'm back. Already announced that on Guitar Huntsman. Thought I should here too.**

 **To prevent months between updates from ever happening again. I'm working on a new schedule. TBA.**

 **Also, I've set u reo n. The link is: "Pa t r eon dotcomforward-slash vronsurd"**

 **So, haven't updated this thing since August of 2017. Because…well I've been working on my other more popular stories.**

 **That said, this is one of my favorite concepts. I mean, Port is just such a fun character to mythicize. But, understandably, people aren't all that interested in a story about Port and Salem. The people who read it think its pretty funny.**

 **But you've got to click the story to read it…**

 **Chapter 2 of the Port Chronicles.**

 **To be updated again in…**

 **The future.**

 **Port's Potency**

 _31 Years 7 months and 25 days Before the Formation of teams RWBY & JNPR. _

_Beacon: The Illustrious School for Huntsmen and Huntresses_

Glynda Goodwitch glared at her teammate.

She used a glare that she had been honing for a while now.

One of her best.

A glare so refined and so piercing that she was cautious practicing it around reflective surfaces, since it wouldn't do to leave herself cowed by her own eyes.

This glare was several levels beyond any technique she had mastered before. The classmates on whom she tested this new expression had a few choice words to describe the experience: "chilling", "soul-crushing", "ocular damnation…"

This look. This glare. It was her very own weapon of mass correction.

There were two targets for which her new glare was designed.

One was obvious.

Ozpin. The laziest, sneakiest, least reputable teacher of Beacon.

At least, so she believed. Others saw him differently.

And then of course…

Port.

Peter-goddamn-Port.

The unrepentant, arrogant, perverted, rapscallion of a man.

It was one of her best glares. It could wilt anyone. It could wilt a plant.

But for some goddam reason, she knew it wouldn't wilt Port. No matter how many glowing reviews she received from her classmates and Beacon staff…

She knew Port would be, for the most part, entirely unfazed.

She knew it, but she wanted to believe otherwise.

The moment of truth had arrived.

"Peter." She spat his name like bile.

"Glynda," replied Peter with something akin to cheer in his voice.

"Why…the hell…is your towel so small?"

Peter glanced downward at his tiny towel, as if he was noticing it's unusual size for the very first time. "It was a gift."

"It's a hand towel," replied Glynda dryly.

"Ah," replied Port. "It looks like a hand towel, I know. But its actually a _perspective_ towel. It serves to highlight one's…gifting."

Glynda didn't have to think long or hard about what "gifting" Peter was referring to. She could see the near inhuman bulge through the towel.

"It's not unlike a push-up bra," continued Peter.

"And why on earth would your _towel_ need to accent your… _gifting_? It doesn't even make sense. How do you even dry yourself with that thing? And why would you want a towel that you have to hold in place?"

"Oh, Glynda," began Peter.

Glynda stiffened, hands already twitching towards her crop. When Peter began like that he usually followed up with a statement that deserved pain.

"Of course, you wouldn't understand Peter Port's perspective towel. It's not for you."

Glynda relaxed—a bit. That wasn't so bad.

And then Peter continued.

"Peter Port's perspective towel is for the benefit of every non-lesbian woman on Remnant."

Peter was sailing back into their bathroom, through their mirror, and then through the wall behind that mirror before Glynda was even aware that she had produced her crop.

His naked form crashed into their neighbor's room—RAR, an all-female team.

Shit. What had she just done? Throwing Peter through a wall? Destroying school property? Damaging her friend's room? Again?

And why?

Because Port implied she was a lesbian because she wasn't attracted to his pathetic brand of masculinity?

She needed to stop being so easily triggered.

"Ladies,"

The moment Glynda heard Port's voice, dripping with his nasty brand of seduction, her crop flicked, seemingly of its own volition, sending her errant team member through their neighbor's floor. This resulted in a cacophony of screams as the naked third-year dropped into the first-year dorm below.

Glynda stepped through the destroyed wall. Her eyes drifted from the Port sized hole in the floor to the bemused face of Rasp, leader of team RAR. The red-haired woman was seated calmly on her bed.

Glynda's eyes found the two remaining members.

Apricot was lying on her own bed, ears covered with large headphones and several car magazines spread out before her. She hadn't looked up.

Rosalie was on a scroll call and on her way to the door.

Glynda caught the tail-end of her conversation.

"…no, hold on, I'm leaving my room, it's about to get loud as hell in here."

Glynda returned her attention to Rasp.

"Glynda."

"Rasp…I apologize."

Rasp finally stopped resisting the laugh that was working its way out of her throat. "Come on Glynda, don't waste time apologizing before you're done destroying the place."

"I'm done. It was a slip up. I'm fine now."

"Really?" Rasp quirked a disbelieving eyebrow skyward.

"I've been working on my…anger. I'm in control now."

"Even with Peter?" asked Rasp, clearly discounting everything Glynda was saying.

"Even with…" Glynda trailed off when the screams below finally changed from shrieks to actual questions.

"Who are you!?"

"Why are you naked!?"

Glynda approached the hole she had made in team RAR's floor. She didn't really want to witness the scene below, but she couldn't, in good conscience, ignore the proceedings while simultaneously subjecting a couple of unlucky first years to it.

A couple of live wires sparked and hissed, torn by Port's body as he plummeted.

Had he been electrocuted on his way down?

Glynda was struck with a realization that, perhaps, she'd gone too far this time. Throwing a naked man through live electrical wires? Each full of, potentially, hundreds of volts of electricity?

Ozpin had been telling her that she should probably get help dealing with her anger. She'd brushed off his comments time and time again. Maybe though, just maybe, their eclectic instructor was right.

Glynda watched Peter brush himself off and shake the drywall and rubble from his hair. He quickly located his "perspective" towel and used it to cover his privates. He had landed between two beds, each containing a horrified girl. There was third girl in a third bed off to the left.

Peter stood, fixing his towel in position with a single hand. He glanced around the room silently, observing his circumstances. After a few seconds he took a step towards one of the girls.

His voice was sultry. "Ladies."

He tried to take another step. But he couldn't.

A white movement-restrictive glyph twirled beneath him. Glynda raised her crop upward. More sparks leapt from its tip than from the exposed live wires.

If a few hundred volts in his naked ass didn't faze him…

Maybe a few thousand would.

Glynda didn't stop to think about what generating lightning would do to the surrounding building. The only thing she registered before her world went red was Rasp's voice.

"In control my ass."

Glynda didn't bother replying verbally.

But in her mind, she figured…

She would be in control.

In the future.

Just as soon as she…

Killed Peter Port.

I*I*I

 _Present Day_

 _Beacon: The Illustrious School for Huntsmen and Huntresses_

Glynda's eyes opened slowly. She was at her desk, head resting on a pile of papers. The wonderful scent of coffee flooded her senses.

She reached for the mug resting before her. She didn't bother looking up yet. She knew Ozpin was sitting before her. Only one man made a brew that delicious smelling.

"Late night?"

Glynda took a sip of that wonderous coffee. Two scoops of sugar and a bit of cream, just how she liked it. Although—it was lacking…something. "Lot of work."

"You know, you don't have to work quite so hard. Look at Bart and Peter. They still find time for other endeavors."

Glynda finally looked up, meeting Ozpin's knowing gaze. "Those of us who assign actual homework, do not find ourselves with an abundance of free time."

"Bart assigns plenty of homework."

Glynda returned her eyes to the steam, billowing off her drink. "He can also grade a dissertation in ten minutes."

Ozpin nodded. "True." The man sipped at his own coffee. "That said, I may need you to make some free time regardless."

Glynda's eyes drifted upwards upon hearing that. "Why?"

Ozpin met her gaze unflinchingly. "The enemy queen is moving. I'd like to be ready."

Glynda sipped her coffee. It was good. But it was still missing something.

The enemy queen. Ozpin had spoke of this mysterious monster for twenty-five-years now. Was it time to finally meet the demon?

Ozpin described Salem, queen of Grimm, as the incarnation of death, evil, and all forms of darkness—which didn't sound like the description of a person one would typically _want_ to meet.

But after 25 years of Ozpin teasing the monster's visage, voice, and villainy…

Well, Glynda was curious enough to anticipate meeting the monstrosity.

"I spoke with Qrow earlier."

"What did he say?"

"He ran out of alcohol on the flight here and he sobered. So…he didn't say much." Ozpin laughed.

"That man is a mess," replied Glynda, as she produced a flask and poured a healthy amount of vodka into her coffee.

Ozpin watched her silently.

When she was finished and took another sip of her coffee—which was now perfect—Ozpin spoke.

"Yes, functional alcoholism, quite the scourge."

Glynda chose to ignore the rather pointed way he looked at her as he spoke. "So, what does the queen of darkness want?"

"The destruction of all that is go—"

Glynda cut him off " _good, precious, and made by man._ I didn't mean her long-term, millennia in the making goals. I meant right now."

"Oh," replied Ozpin. "I believe it to be fairly obvious. Her eye has always been fixed on Beacon, no doubt ever since she realized I took up residence here. Her attention as of late, however, has become more…focused. The Grimm are congregating more regularly at the Emerald forest border, but they display little aggression. They are…observing. I believe she knows that we are keeping her here."

"So, she's after the maiden," summed Glynda.

"It's the most likely scenario—although, I suppose, she could be coming for me."

"For you hm?" Glynda just barely managed to keep disbelief from slipping into her tone.

"She is somewhat…obsessed with me," said Ozpin, chuckling from behind his coffee.

Glynda struggled to keep her annoyance off display.

Ozpin had been talking about Salem for years.

Years.

He claimed she hated him. That she wanted his life more than she wanted anything else—besides, of course, 'the destruction of all that is good, precious, and made by man.'

Whatever the hell _that_ meant.

Not to be unclear, Glynda believed in Ozpin. She did.

He had missteered, misled, and misdirected her many, many, times.

But not when it really counted. Not when it came down to life or death.

So, when Ozpin, her longtime teacher and _tentative_ friend, told her that there was a queen of the Grimm…

That there was a demoness full of nothing but malice and hatred, with the means and motivation to rain down destruction across Remnant…

She believed him.

And when he told her that he was an ancient Wizard, reincarnated in a never-ending cycle for centuries, with only one, near impossible task…

She believed him.

And when Ozpin claimed that he and Salem, master of monsters and conveyor of darkness, were archenemies, foes bound by mutual hatred and an eternal war.

She believed him.

But that third belief… That third trust…

Well, Ozpin had stretched that one awful thin over the last decade.

Oh, she believed in Ozpin's hatred.

It was hard not to, given how often he talked about the Queen of Grimm—albeit cryptically.

He was always chomping at the bit, ready to lead an army against the villain at the slightest hint of her location. Hell, if Glynda let him, he'd probably lead a company of students on his quest to kill the empress evil.

Most days Glynda thanked the goddesses that Ozpin had no idea where in the wildlands Salem was hiding.

The man's fixation and mania left little room for doubt as to the veracity of his hatred.

But he also claimed that Salem hated him.

That she was the one _obsessed_ with bringing him to ruin.

Something about that claim just didn't ring true.

Sure, if Ozpin and Salem had been fighting one another for hundreds of years without rest than Salem probably disliked him. Hell, she probably thought he was the most irritating human being to have ever lived.

But hatred?

Glynda wasn't so sure.

After all, according to Ozpin, the Grimm reported back to her, and the night itself obeyed her commands.

Which meant she sure as hell knew where Ozpin was.

And yet Glynda had never once witnessed Salem take direct action against him.

Yes, the Grimm still attacked when he was nearby…

And he'd had more than a few run ins with dark huntsmen back when he was her team captain…

But if Salem was so obsessed with him, wouldn't she have sent Grimm after him by the thousand? Wouldn't those dark-huntsmen have attacked armed with intimate knowledge of Ozpin's strengths and techniques?

Ozpin claimed that the first few years of each of his new lives were always the most peaceful. Salem had no idea where he was, who he was, or what he was doing. It wasn't until he inevitably began to amass power and influence that Salem could easily identify him.

Ozpin claimed he always knew when she had finally noticed him in his new life.

The Grimm congregated a bit more readily near his abode. They sometimes watched him without attacking, just observing, as if the queen herself was peering out of the beast's eyes.

It was a little after this point, in every life, that the attempts on his life began.

Assassins, elder Grimm, hordes—and whatever else the queen of Grimm thought to throw at him—he had faced them all.

Or so he claimed.

Glynda had never actually seen evidence of the slaughter supposedly coming Ozpin's way. In the beginning he kept claiming that it would start soon.

That he'd be hunted like a wild dog in the streets…

That he would not even be able to hide…

He stopped with the "any day now" predictions after a few years—when it became evident that he was wrong. When it became evident that, perhaps, Salem wasn't quite as interested in Ozpin as he believed her to be.

It was with all this in mind that Glynda took note of the expression painted across Ozpin's face.

Her boss was anything _but_ an open book. But, over the years she had learned to pick up on his small tells—and right now the corner of his mouth was twitching up and down in a tiny cycle. Ozpin was skilled at schooling his amusement. If he was having trouble suppressing a smile, then he must have been feeling childish glee…

And, as far as Glynda could tell, the source of the man's elation was the thought of the queen of Grimm finally gunning for him—even though they'd already established that, based on the timing, it was more likely she was after the maiden.

Still, the notion alone had him on the verge of giggling.

Who was obsessed with who again?

Glynda was drawn from her thoughts by Ozpin's question.

"So, do you think we can bring Peter and Bart a little further into the fold?"

Glynda sighed. This conversation again. "I don't see how much further into the fold they could reasonably be brought. They both know of Salem—somehow. And they are both aware that you're engaged in a struggle against her."

"Right, but they could be valuable assets in a—" began Ozpin.

Glynda cut him off. "But they don't care." She took another sip—not from her coffee—from her flask. "They know there's a queen of Grimm. They know her eye is on Vale. They know she's willing to kill and slaughter entire nations—and they…just…don't…care."

"So you continue to say," drawled Ozpin. "But, your relationship with Peter has always been, antagonistic—to say the least. Perhaps his apathy is a result of your past relationship…?"

Glynda shrugged noncommittally. It was an unusual way for her to respond to a question. But when the question involved Peter Port it was always a matter of her not giving a shit _or_ her losing her shit. There was no in between. "Then why don't you speak with him?"

"My relationship with Peter has always been…" Ozpin faded away in thought.

"tenuous?" suggested Glynda.

"Tenuous would suggest a severe lack of existence. There certainly is a relationship. It's less a matter of quantity and more one of quality. Port and I appear to be…frenemies."

Glynda cocked an eyebrow at the word choice. " _frenemies_?"

"I work with children Glynda, some of them are even full grown."

Glynda smiled lightly at that comment. There was no doubt Bart and Port _were_ men now, but large parts of them were still the same morons from their student days.

And as for what Ozpin was claiming, that he had a strong but strained relationship with Port, it was accurate, to say the least. Before Beacon had implemented the four-man team system and student-leaders Ozpin had been Glynda's team captain.

Glynda was immediately jealous of the teams that received a more experienced and wisened instructor to lead them.

Ozpin was lazy, an asshole, and, generally, the absolute worst. He was the youngest instructor at Beacon, barely older than the students he was leading.

The team dynamic was… odd. To say the least.

Ozpin was usually a caffeine addicted unreliable slacker—but with an ability to become deathly serious when the situation called for it.

Bart was both laid back and uncompromisingly energetic. He could read a shelf of books in complete silence for hours on end—or talk your ear off about the minutia of some inane historical topic. His relationship with Ozpin should have been fine, both united under a similar addiction to caffeine—but between them stood a near insurmountable obstacle—Peter…Goddamn…Port…

Glynda had always fancied herself the voice of reason on the team, and she knew that was true, sometimes. But it wasn't always the case.

It couldn't be.

Not with Peter Port around to push every single one of her goddamn buttons.

Peter was a lascivious testosterone-fueled salacious son of a bitch without a shred of shame or embarrassment to be found within him. His lust for adventure and his single-minded desire to be the greatest huntsman to have ever lived was the cause of eight out of ten of Glynda's worst life experiences.

His relationship with Ozpin had always been…unusual. On the one hand, Ozpin would occasionally care an inordinate amount about their mission. Years later Glynda realized that a serious Ozpin meant that, in some way, shape, or form, the man saw their mission as one that would him achieve his overarching goal of slaying Salem.

When he was serious and focused Ozpin and Port were on fine terms. The teacher was never quite as enthused as the student but that was fine, at least they both wanted to perform satisfactorily. Even if Port didn't just want to succeed—but set Remnant wide huntsmen records as he did it.

It was when Ozpin was feeling lackadaisical and acting bored with life that he and Port clashed like polka-dots and stripes.

Those days were hell.

If they came across a horde of Grimm, Port wanted to slay them all—with a handicap of course, to make things interesting.

Ozpin, on the other hand, wondered if the town that had hired them would actually notice if they didn't hunt any Grimm.

Port wanted to sleep in caves.

Ozpin claimed he wasn't made for anything with less than three hundred thread-count.

Port wanted to save every damsel in distress.

Ozpin believed the damsel in distress pandemic afflicting Remnant might be helped by allowing the damsels to learn to help themselves.

Glynda sighed. By the time her team graduated Port and Ozpin fought like brothers who hated each other's guts.

Brothers.

But they hated each other.

It was an apt way to describe the men's relationship.

This, of course, was even further complicated by the fact that Bart took his cues from Peter. Not in everything. Bart could be fiercely independent when he so chose—but in terms of interactions with Ozpin, Bart was happy to be tacitly on Peter's side—in just about everything.

It wasn't so much that either man displayed an open hatred of Ozpin but…well…

Glynda was still close with both Bart and Peter, even though their team had disbanded years earlier, she still considered them to be her teammates.

And she was certain they felt the same.

She knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that if any one of them were ever in trouble, the other two would leap to his or her aid without a second thought.

But Ozpin, being the centuries old, body hopping, parasitic wizard that he was…

Well, he didn't feel that way about anyone.

Port, despite being, aloof to most everything, was not ignorant of this fact.

Glynda had long ago accepted that Ozpin would throw her life away at so much as a taste of a shot at Salem.

Port was incapable of accepting that level of impending betrayal.

She couldn't really fault him for that.

Although, she did fault him for everything else.

Glynda eventually spoke, "so, are you going to talk to them?"

"I plan to," replied Ozpin. He set down his mug. "I was hoping that you would join me."

Glynda sighed. The request wasn't unexpected. She just really didn't want to do it. "My presence will only make the proceedings more difficult, I assure you. I've spoken with him about Salem at length. All I received for my troubles was a headache and six walls with holes in them."

"Well..." replied Ozpin. Then he shrugged. "Perhaps this time the conversation can end with a bit less… property damage."

"Very well," said Glynda. She poured the rest of her flask into her mug, creating a one-part coffee to three parts vodka blend. "But believe me, however it ends, it will end poorly."

Ozpin stood, already headed for the door. "Come on Glynda, have a little faith."

Glynda followed the headmaster, albeit reluctantly. She had a feeling this day was about to get a hell of a lot worse.

I*I*I

Doctor Bartholomew Oobleck's head was on the swivel.

He sipped from his beloved thermos as his eyes flitted from face to face.

The tension was so thick it was practically tangible, like the air was being compressed into a thick soup by it.

This was how it always was when Peter and Glynda attempted to have a conversation. And it was only exacerbated by Ozpin, one of the few humans in the world who could burrow his way through Peter's usually, impenetrable skin.

The three individuals' relationships formed a lopsided triangle. With Port's…well, entire being, infuriating Glynda. Ozpin's laissez-faire attitude and dispassionate approach annoying Port. And Glynda's no-nonsense and driven demeanor ruined Ozpin's efforts toward laziness.

Bartholomew had realized long ago that this strange group dynamic was a form of social symbiosis. In other words, the relationships were all mutually beneficial. Each member of the triangle got something out of their corresponding pair—even if they didn't realize it or refused to admit it.

Yes, this dynamic, when viewed with a bit of objectivity was undeniably constructive.

"Explain to me again," roared Port. "Why you wish to harass that innocent woman!"

Yes, quite the constructive dynamic.

"I do not wish to harass her," replied Ozpin in a level and amused tone. "I wish to behead her. Rip out her heart. And burn her remains."

A piece of the table broke off when Port slammed his fist down.

Bartholomew took another sip of his thermos.

So, the dynamic wasn't always constructive. Whatever. It was less a scientific law and more of a personal hypothesis anyway.

"And you condone this Glynda?" asked Peter.

"Salem is the queen of Grimm Peter. She's not an 'innocent woman.'" Glynda's voice was dripping with artificial patience—without an ounce of the real stuff.

"Oh Glynda," began Port.

Glynda appeared to be fighting the urge to reach for her crop.

"You've never even met her. I assure you. Last I saw of her she was a beautiful mess, stuttering and stammering and blushing black—"

"She blushes black!?" interrupted Bartholomew. The rest of his words flew out in a few seconds. "You never mentioned that Peter! Do you suppose her blood is black then? Or perhaps it has something to do with how the light interacts with her skin…? But then again Grimm don't have blood, not proper. Would you describe her as more a woman with Grimm attributes or a Grimm with woman attributes? And would you—"

"Bart!" Glynda interrupted him.

"Sorry," said Bart, unapologetically.

"Peter, I must say, although we are all painfully aware of the… influence women tend to have on you," said Ozpin, with a small smile. "I was under the impression that said influence was limited to _beautiful_ women. Why would a horrific barely female monster be included?"

Port replied to Ozpin with a booming chuckle, obviously forced. "You know, every time you speak about her _Ozpin_ , I find myself more doubtful of your claim to have met her."

Ozpin's smile did not fade. "I could say the same of you."

"I, Peter Port, am many things Ozpin. A liar is not one of them. Can you say the same?"

Ozpin did not seem much bothered by Port's rebuttal. "I can _say_ just about anything Peter."

Port's laughter became even more plastic.

Bart inserted himself into the conversation tactfully. "Peter, no one is calling you a liar. And no one is saying that _you_ don't find the queen of Grimm attractive—but would you agree that it might be fair to claim that she is not a…conventional beauty?"

"Ha!" exclaimed Peter, his voice now lacking the testiness it possessed when he was addressing Ozpin. "The very fact that the maiden caught my attention means her beauty is beyond conventions!"

"Really?" replied Glynda, glaring at him. "Are you certain it doesn't just confirm her gender?"

Port laughed. It sounded genuine. "Are you still talking about that mission in Mistral Glynda?"

" _Still?_ ", repeated Glynda, eyes narrowing dangerously.

Port missed the clear indicator that he should stop talking. "I hardly even recall that mission."

"You don't recall attacking us!?"

Port scoffed. "I'd hardly call what I did an attack."

"You sent me through a building while screaming 'die'," inserted Ozpin.

"I'd hardly call what I did to _Glynda_ an attack."

Bart felt it was time for him to speak up again. To keep the peace, before Glynda brought out her crop. "Your transition in alliance _did_ make that mission significantly more difficult to complete Peter."

"Yes well," began Peter. "That couldn't be helped. I was under our enemy's spell."

"I protected us all from any sort of mental manipulation before we confronted her," snapped Glynda.

"Not a literal spell Glynda," explained Port, in a voice that sounded as if he were talking to a child. "I was under the spell of her beauty."

Glynda's face was so red that she looked as if she couldn't possibly get any angrier.

Then Port kept talking.

"To be honest, I'm surprised Glynda didn't fall for it too."

Bart realized the situation was disintegrating when Glynda rounded the table. She went from standing by Ozpin's side to towering over the still seated Peter in an instant.

"For the last time you fat pig, I. Am. Not. A. Lesbian."

"Me think the lady doth protest too much."

"Hm," said Ozpin, from behind his mug. "She does deny it quite intensely."

"Right?" said Peter, managing to find some sense of camaraderie with his abhorrent boss in the shared belief that Glynda had not taken the time to fully flesh out her sexuality. He turned back to the furious headmistress. "I understand years in the closet, longing for—Professor Peach, perhaps?—have left you frustrated. Sexually. But that's no reason to be mean. You know how my semblance works. I am not fat. I am—"

Whatever Peter was planning to say ended abruptly when Glynda whipped out her crop. Bart prepared to throw himself away from his doomed friend. Which direction he would go depended on exactly _how_ Glynda planned to exact justice on Peter.

Ozpin stopped her before she could unleash her fury.

And with only a few words too.

"Half the damages will come out of your paycheck Glynda."

"And the other half?" questioned Glynda, crop still drawn and leveled with Port's blue moustache.

"From Peter, obviously," replied Ozpin.

For a moment Glynda looked as if she might happily forgo a few paychecks if she could throw Peter through a couple of walls and force him to forgo his paycheck as well.

In the end, cooler heads prevailed. Glynda left with a huff, slamming the door behind her.

Bart watched her go. He'd need to talk to her later, once she had clamed down.

"Now that you've managed to infuriate Glynda to the brink of near assault," said Ozpin, his own role in her anger entirely forgotten. "Perhaps we can move to the meat of the issue?"

"And that is?" questioned Port.

"Regardless of your…unusual…sentiments towards her," said Ozpin. "I know you have no desire to see Beacon reduced to rubble by the Queen of Grimm."

"That's true!" agreed Peter.

"I've noticed that Salem's attention has been drifting towards this school as of late."

"I noticed the same!"

Ozpin fixed Peter with a disbelieving stare.

Bart might have looked at his old friend with much the same expression—if Peter had not shared that very same detail with him a few days prior. According to the rotund professor, the Grimm were starting to eye him "less like a human and more like a piece of meat", whatever that meant.

"Yes, well. Given Salem's state of unrest. And our mutual desire to protect this school. I'd like to bring you into my confidence, so to speak. Working together, like we used to. Obviously, we're not going after Salem, since we don't even know where she is. But if she were to attack I need you by my side, briefed and ready to fight. So, what would _you_ require from me, to forget all about the less than productive relationship that has existed between us for the last few years?"

Port stared at Ozpin for a long moment. "You want to make our entire history water under the bridge, huh?"

"Indeed."

Bart sipped from his thermos, and glanced from Peter to Ozpin and back again, careful to keep quiet. The tension between the two men was almost visible, stretched out like a couple of massive rubber bands.

Bart already had an idea of how it was all going to turn out. He was, after all, a student of the human mind and human behavior.

Peter Port was a man of intense pride. He was jovial and forgiving. But he never forgot. Especially not those he considered his foe.

In fact, if he considered you a foe, he wasn't that jovial or forgiving.

Which meant there was nothing on Remnant that he could want enough to make up with Ozpin. Nothing.

He took another sip of his thermos. Ozpin took a sip of his mug at the same time.

"I want a new class. Without walls. To teach men how to be men. I'll call it Port's Potency class. For men who wish to be potent on the battlefield—and in the bedr—"

Ozpin and Bart sprayed hot coffee at the same time.

"You want what!?"

"Port's Potency class. Exclusively for those who wish to be potent on the battlefield—and in the bedroom."

Ozpin removed his glasses, wiping off the coffee Bart had sprayed on his lenses with his shirt.

Bart proceeded to do the same.

"And you will do what, exactly, in this class?" asked Ozpin.

Port laughed. "Teach boys to become men."

Ozpin steepled his fingers. "I assume your primary obstacle in establishing this class has been—"

"Glynda." Port shook his head. "You can't blame the poor woman. She must be worried about me passing on my techniques because of the unavoidable drop in the lesbian population that will follow."

Bart tried not to choke on more coffee.

There was no way Peter would be allowed to start…Port's Potency class.

There was simply no way. The double entendre alone should rule out the possibility of the class's existence.

"Done," said Ozpin. He extended an open hand to Peter.

Bart stared at that extended hand as if it were instead a tentacle.

Peter didn't reach for the olive branch quite yet. "One more thing."

"Yes?" asked Ozpin.

"I want the resources necessary to enact my own plans for Salem."

"Your own plans?" asked Ozpin, curiosity lacing his voice.

"Nothing too costly, I swear. I will need resources—but no more than an A rank huntsman mission."

Ozpin's consideration only lasted a half-second. "That sounds like something we can definitely manage."

Peter took the headmaster's hand, shaking it for a while.

Bart couldn't believe the next word's out of Ozpin's mouth.

"Port's Potency class will be on the roster by tomorrow. Are there any students, in particular, you want to enroll?"

Port produced folded piece of paper from his pant pockets. He slid it over to Ozpin. Bart could only make out the sheet's text from the light that shined through it, which meant he had no idea what it said. But he could clearly see that Port's writing covered the paper from edge to edge.

Ozpin looked over the page quickly. "Looks doable Peter." He stood, offering his hand once again. "You are aware that Glynda will be furious about this."

"Glynda…" began Peter. "…needs the passionate embrace of a lover—even if only for a night. Unfortunately, the three of us are the only ones who know this. And none of us are capable of satiating her carnal desires."

For a moment it seemed Port was done. But after a few seconds of silence he added, "because we are men."

Ozpin chuckled as he left the room.

Peter turned to Oobleck with an enormous grin. "Well, that certainly went better than expected, didn't it?"

Bart was still a little taken aback by Peter's new class proposal and Ozpin's acceptance.

But, despite his surprise, he had learned to roll with the punches over the years, given his team's eclectic nature. One question, however, did bother him. "What is this plan of yours for Salem?"

"Well, I was given the idea by a brilliant young lady in my class, you know her, Ms. Valkyrie."

Bart felt dread beginning to build in his stomach, knotting up his organs like tangled fishing wire.

An idea—inspired by _that_ particular student?

"And it's really just perfect timing," continued Peter. "Especially if Salem is making her way here. I can meet her halfway."

"The timing is perfect for what?" asked Oobleck.

"Well, I've been meaning to talk to you about this for a while Bart…"

"Talk about what?" Oobleck questioned further. The knots in his stomach transformed into burning balls of lead.

"I think it's time I settled down. I mean, I've done it all. I've fought legendary Grimm. I've battled unending hordes… I think its time for the final challenge…"

Oh, goddesses above. Please let him say a battle to the death with the Queen of Grimm. Or, perhaps, a simple contest of strength.

Like arm wrestling.

Or tag.

Or…water polo.

"What's the final challenge?" Bartholomew Oobleck PhD eked out.

Port erupted into laughter. "Do you really not know? It's the same for every man!"

As Peter spoke, Bart slammed his head, glasses and all, into the desk, at a speed he could only reach when high on caffeine.

"Marriage!"

 **I have a Pa t r eon now: "Pa t r eon dotcomforward-slash vronsurd"**

 **Also, don't know when I'll update this again. The Shield of Vale is next.**


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